Playing DressUp
by scifiunicorn
Summary: He's not worth it, she told herself, and nearly laughed at how utterly ridiculous that statement was. Maybe he wasn't worth it, but that wouldn't stop her from wanting him.


_Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, so I'd love to hear what you have to say about it._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing_

_Warnings: Um... Angst?_

* * *

Rose shifted through the rack of dresses, fingers gliding across silk, velvet, satin, lace, and various other fabrics, some she'd seen before, others she'd never imagined in her wildest dreams. Some of the dresses were ridiculously extravagant, bursting with color and ruffles, while others were stiff and utilitarian. They came from all different time periods, the 1950s, 1800s, even as far back as the Middle Ages. Some of the more futuristic dresses made her wonder if Lady Gaga was crowned Dictator of Fashion in the near future.

Finally, she found a shimmery blue dress with a portrait neckline and a large, floppy bow across the chest. She removed it from the rack and pressed it against herself, turning to observe how it looked on her in the mirror. Giggling, she ran behind the nearby changing screen, draping the dress over the edge. She stripped out of her t-shirt and jeans and slipped on the dress, noting that the fabric was much softer on the outside than the inside. It rubbed against her skin, creating an uncomfortable itching sensation, and the rough underskirt scratched against her legs. Pushing the last button through it's hole, she stepped out from the changing screen.

Rose ran to the mirror, skirt flouncing with each step. Standing in front of the mirror, she observed her reflection. The portrait neckline accentuated her collarbones and shoulders, and even gave her modest chest a bit of lift. Her skin was nearly glowing, though that could probably be attributed to the fact that she'd spent the whole day yesterday lazing on the sunny beaches of Barcelona. Her wavy hair seemed to emit a sort of etheral, golden light, framing her face.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a white stole lying neatly folded on the ground, along with a pair of matching gloves. She glanced up, smiling knowingly, and the TARDIS replied with a proud purr. Rose reached down and and wrapped the stole around her, fastening it with a large brooch, and slipped the gloves on. She flexed her silk-encased fingers, exercising their mobility.

She turned around and looked in the mirror.

She felt beautiful.

Everything looked perfect. Her hair, her makeup, her dress, everything. She felt like one of those classic movie stars, like Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe, like she could walk down a red carpet and everyone would be enraptured by her beauty.

But would the Doctor be?

Rose tilted up her chin and analyzed her face.

_You've got a little bit of a... chin poking out_.

Cassandra's scathing accent burned in her mind.

_Look at me... I'm a chav!_

_It's like living inside a bouncy castle!_

_Once I find someone less... Common._

Rose felt a hot ball of pain surge up her throat. Tears burned at the edges of her eyes, blurring her vision and turning the world around her into dripping smudges of color. No, of course the Doctor wouldn't find her beautiful. He only liked 18th Century courtesans. Elegant women, educated women, women who donned expensive dresses and who were adorned with jewelry. Not nineteen-year-old shop girls with no A-levels and dead dads. Why would he ever look her way?

Sure, there was handholding, and hugging, and even the occasional bit of flirting, but Rose knew that that was just another facet of his personality. He was innately flirtatious, she'd learned. His affectionate touches meant nothing.

Rose sniffled and wiped away at a tear sliding down her cheek. She choked a little, trying to force down the ball of pain that formed at the base of her throat. Her skin prickled, the dress suddenly felt tight and constricting. Like it was purposely trying to choke her. The fabric rubbed against her skin. Suddenly everything was spinning, the floor slipping beneath her feet. Quick breaths, in and out, yet air still didn't fill her lungs.

She crumpled to the ground, leaning against the mirror. She sobbed into her hands, gentle, muffled sobs, hoping that the Doctor wouldn't happen to walk by and hear her. She didn't want his sympathy. Her tears continued flowing down her cheeks. She hiccuped and coughed, unable to stop her tears.

_Chav._

_Whore._

_Shop girl._

_Common._

She pressed her face against her knees to muffle the rest of her whimpers and sobs, the tears finally beginning to subside a little. When they finally stopped, she looked up.

A dress was on display that hadn't been there before.

It was an 18th Century dress, a ball gown, without a doubt. Made with shining cream fabric, the bodice lined with pearls and bows, swirling with pink embroidery. She got up and slowly stepped towards it, running her hand over the sleeves. The TARDIS had created it for her, she had no doubt about that. Her heart sped up a little.

She removed it from the rack and carried it behind the changing screen. She unbuttoned the back of her dress and slid it too the floor, then started putting on the ball gown. It wasn't a true 18th Century gown. If it were, there was no way she'd be able to put it on without the help of at least five other women. This one was just a replica, with several, thick underskirts to replace a metal crinoline, and no corset. While there wasn't any corset, the tight bodice definitely felt like one. She buttoned up the back and stepped out.

It was certainly uncomfortable, so tight that Rose already felt light-headed, and her back ached from being forced to stay pin-straight. She walked stiffly to the mirror, and observed herself.

The tight bodice did a good job of pushing up her breasts and shrinking her waist, giving off the impression of an hourglass figure. Mascara dripped down her face in heavy, black fingers, and her tears had bled through her foundation, leaving it in streaks that exposed her pale skin below. She rubbed at her stained, blotchy face, trying to force down another surge of tears.

Reinette had looked much better than her in a ball gown. With her perfect pale skin, and her rosebud lips, her pink-stained cheeks, her smooth blonde hair. She had looked like a human-sized china doll, all perfect in a dress.

What was Rose, then?

She smiled, all big teeth and oversized lips, square jaw, too-dark eyebrows, bleached blonde hair turned rough and dry by too many straightenings and colorings. She swallowed down the acrid taste of shame and disappointment, curling her tongue at the coppery aftertaste.

Rose hated crying, especially when it was over one guy. But then again, this wasn't just one guy. This was the Doctor. This was the man who'd grabbed her by her hand and told her to _run_, the man who she'd harbored feelings for since gas mask zombies and Captain Jack Harkness. She'd nearly burned alive for this man. And what did he do? He abandoned her for a woman he'd known a total of three hours.

_He's not worth it_, she told herself, and nearly laughed at how utterly ridiculous that statement was. Maybe he wasn't worth it, but that wouldn't stop her from wanting him. That wouldn't stop her stomach from curling and her heart from fluttering whenever he grabbed her hand or pulled her against him in a tight hug, wouldn't stop her cheeks from turning pink whenever he gazed at her just a few seconds too long, wouldn't stop her from giggling when he told some dorky, childish joke that wasn't funny or that she just didn't get. And it wouldn't stop her heart from breaking whenever he did something that said they could never be, that he didn't see her as any more than a silly human, a passing fancy, something to dawdle away his time until he find something shiny and new to capture his attention.

Rose stripped off the dress, and changed back into her original outfit, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. _The Uncrowned Queen of France would never wear something like this, _a snarky voice in the back of her head told her. She hurried back to her room, managing to avoid the Doctor and Mickey- she didn't want either of them to see that she'd been crying. When she got to her room, she took a long, hot bath, scrubbing away at her skin until it was pink and raw, rubbing at her scalp until she was sure she would see blood in the water. When she was done, she changed into a pair of soft, loose pajamas, crawling into bed with a tawdry romance novel and a hot cup of tea.

She could pretend all she wanted, but she knew the truth. No matter how much makeup she wore, how she did her hair, even if she donned the most fine gowns and learned to act like a good and proper lady, she still wasn't enough to capture the Doctor's attention. She was still just a regular shop girl, playing dress up.

* * *

_So? Comment and tell me what you think._


End file.
